


The Wait

by Serinah



Series: The Wait [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Denial, Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:14:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serinah/pseuds/Serinah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When reading about Sherlock's death and John's grief I always wonder, what if it were John who had been forced to bow out of this life? How would Sherlock react?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wait

Sherlock reached the house too late – it was already consumed by fire. The fire-fighters were standing at attention, making sure the fire didn't spread on neighbouring buildings, but otherwise there was nothing to do but wait until the building collapsed.

 

“Where's John?” Sherlock had already glimpsed into the two ambulance cars and seen no patients being treated. There must have been a third car. “Hospital?”

 

At first Lestrade didn't answer. For a moment he just stood, staring silently into the fire, but then he turned. Stepped closer. Answered.

 

Sherlock had to read the man's lips, since his low, halting voice couldn't possibly carry over the roaring sound of burning. It hardly mattered though; Sherlock saw the DI's face and understood all the words. Overall though, it didn't make much sense.

 

“Is there a back door? An underground tunnel?”

 

There must have been one. A way into the sewage through the basement. John would be out that way.

 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said.

 

Sherlock nodded as if agreeing and turned back towards the fire. Surely the police officer would leave him be now. He did.

 

The air was scorching hot. That is why he must be feeling so light-headed. His legs gave out. No point in combing the streets, because John got out with ample time to spear, therefore he would be unharmed and perfectly capable of coming back home on his own.

 

Somebody helped him up and onto the ambulance.

 

“I have to go home,” he stated, but didn't even try to get up.

 

He was given some water and examined. Passively, he ignored the paramedics and let them do what they would.

 

“I have to go home,” he repeated and stood.

 

John might even be waiting for him at the Baker Street already if he took a cab. Did he have any cash on him? Sherlock didn't know. He started towards the main street.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

Annoyingly, Lestrade had materialised form somewhere, rudely shoving Sherlock back into the world of contrasting darkness and flame. Smoke was making him nauseas.

 

“Why are you asking me that? I'm fine.”

 

Lestrade's face was gleaming with sweat, there was soot on his face and his hair was in spiky disarray. Shockingly, his eyes were red and moist, as if he were holding back tears.

 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock frowned. “Did any of your colleagues...” He cleared his throat. “Was any of your people in there... before the … um?”

 

Disturbingly, the DI blinked several times, his throat working.

 

“Sherlock...” he finally managed. “DS Briggs saw John go into the building just before...” Lestrade swallowed, seemingly not knowing how to continue.

 

Sherlock stared at him, uncomprehendingly. “Yes? I know, it was I who sent him there.” He just hoped John had had a chance to get the documents out of the office before he ran.

 

“Nobody saw him get out, Sherlock,” the policeman said slowly, staring at Sherlock as if making sure he understood.

 

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. The façade was a mess, John wouldn't have gotten out that way and the building was certainly not yet surrounded. Besides, sewers.

 

“Stating the obvious, like always, Lestrade?” he drawled.

 

The next moment the policeman's face was pulled into a grimace of violent rage.

 

“He was your friend! John's your friend!” he yelled, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders.

 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock broke the hold by stepping back. Apprehensively, he took one more step. “Go home. The stress must be getting to you. You've stopped making any sense.”

 

He turned away and quickly made it onto the main street. It was almost four blocks before he managed to get a taxi, but John wasn't home when he arrived, so it didn't matter.

 

Sherlock dropped his coat somewhere on the stairs and sank into his armchair, steeping his fingers under his chin. When it started to get light, he sneaked into John's room, borrowed one of the ridiculous old jumpers, and went to lie down on the sofa for a few hours.

 

John would make tea when he got back, Sherlock thought as he arranged the soft wool under his cheek. He could wait.


End file.
